


One Night in Braavos

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Leave Her to Her Game [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: A Duel of Death & Pleasure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Book 4: A Feast for Crows, Braavos, F/M, Leave Her to Her Game, Mild Smut, Modern Braavos, Modern Essos, Modern Westeros, Organized Crime, People of Color in ASOIAF, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: Modern - AUShe came to him as a name on a folder: Sarella Nar Qo Sand.The Red Viper's eldest three daughters were making a name in contract-killing circles. The Faceless Men wanted a head-start on evaluating the fourth. "Assess her tendencies, strengths, and weaknesses," they instructed him. "And find out what she's doing at the Citadel."Six years and multiple run-ins later, Jaqen H'ghar can't get the girl out of his head.
Relationships: Sarella Sand/Jaqen H'ghar
Series: Leave Her to Her Game [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505153
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. No Turning Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's only me and you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904588) by [xdarksistahx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdarksistahx/pseuds/xdarksistahx). 



> If you've read "A Duel of Death & Pleasure," you're familiar with Sarella, Jaqen, and what happens after their infamous "night in Braavos." 
> 
> This is a prequel.

He finds her standing in front of a painting.

The massive watercolor— _No Turning Back_ —depicts a black night on a foamy sea. A boat's helm angled at the center base of the canvas points to the viewer. A captain steers, unaware that a mob of multi-hued armed men and women glare at his back with fierce, determined eyes. Scrawled in the bottom right corner, in white cursive against blue-black waves is a Low Valyrian translation of the words _"No man, woman, or child..."_ a reference to the First Law of Braavos banning all forms of slavery.

At first glance, she's in an oversized heather gray hoodie, but it's actually a dress. He can see where it cinches at the waist and falls just so over her slim hips. Thick black socks and high boots hug the middle of her toned, brown thighs. As comfortable as she looks, she's wearing at least $5,000 and that's before he sees the quilted black bag she carries.

He hones in on the elegant slope her neck, exposed as she stands transfixed by the painting. She's a veritable buffet of visual delights, but he's always drawn to her neck. It stands out most when her busy mind's at work and she tilts her head to the side. He almost doesn't want to interrupt her. Almost. "A lady is wealthy enough to buy this twice over, is she not?"

"I have a replica about half this size at home," she says, still not meeting his eyes. "But nothing compares to the original."

He moves closer, catching a whiff of her fragrance. It's a misty autumn day in Braavos, yet she smells of brilliant sunshine on a lush beach.

_A man should get a hold of himself._

He needs a distraction, so he studies the painting. He's no art connoisseur, but like all Braavosi children, he grew up on stories of the city's heroic founders. The slaves who decided they were slaves no more and the wise Moonsingers who led them to a free land hidden in a gray lagoon.

"Is this an accidental meeting or did you sense competition on your turf?" 

She knows better. Monitoring competing companies is part of his job. None of their meetings are accidental. "A lady looked so dangerous dining with her mother and her mother's paramour last night. A man had to investigate further."

"Jaqen."

The flash of annoyance in her voice when he speaks the old Lorathi style amuses him so. "What brings you to Braavos?"

To his surprise, she gives a straight answer. "My mother's doing a big event with the Black Pearl tomorrow. I promised I'd make an appearance."

He's heard the chatter about Jolona Qo's exclusive high-end lingerie line among the courtesans throughout the city. He's not surprised she tapped Bellegere Otherys as the face of the new line. She'll certainly wear it well. "And what brings you to the museum alone?"

"Minding my business until a creep speaking a dead dialect interrupted me." The jibe hangs in the air before she cracks a smile. "Not a recon mission, if that's what you're asking. Some of us have lives outside of work."

"Lavish parties and staring at old paintings. I am green with envy." If she understood the Game of Faces, she would hear the truth in his second statement. _So she isn't here on business. Good_. As long as this is a personal trip, he doesn't have to report her actions.

That is his code for Sarella Sand. His order would disagree.

* * *

She came to him six years prior as a name on a folder: Sarella Nar Qo Sand.

Daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell and Summer Isles rum heiress/entrepreneur, Jolona Qo. The sixteen-year-old prodigy that passed the Citadel's rigorous entrance exam. The Red Viper's eldest three daughters were making a name in contract-killing circles. The Faceless Men wanted a head-start on evaluating the fourth. "Assess her tendencies, strengths, and weaknesses," they instructed him. "And find out what she's doing at the Citadel." 

He adopted the persona of "Pate Hill," a Citadel student from the Westerlands. The best personas were present but unremarkable; close, but not intimate and Pate fit the bill. Disposing of the young man brought him no joy, but it had to be done. The following day, he learned made the switch too late. A few hours earlier, he would have witnessed Sarella slice a classmate's face with a chard of glass.

When he first laid eyes on her, her looks were a matter of record. Tall, lean, and athletic in build. Skin the color of light brown ale. Twinkling black eyes. No matter how she wore her hair—wild, ebony curls coiling from her scalp; pressed sleek or wavy down her back and shoulders; in the twists and braids popular in the Summer Isles—her father's widow's peak remained prominent on her forehead. And there was her ever-present smile as if in on a joke the rest of the world missed.

The benefit of entering his order at a young age: he learned to control his desires at the dawn of his manhood. So despite being a nineteen-year-old male, he wasn't compelled by her appearance alone. He enjoyed just watching her... be. The hours she spent in the Citadel library with her bespectacled face buried in books and notes. Her confidence when defending her ideas in class. How she laughed with her whole body—face thrown back and shoulders shaking—after a few ciders at the Quill and Tankard. Her sharp focus when she practiced throwing darts. The ease and fluidity in her hips when she danced with her lover in the corners of Summer Isles bars on the docks. Observing her made him ache for a technicolor existence he never had in the House of Black and White. Occasionally, she tore at his careful threads of self-control and made him ache in other places, too.

He enjoyed watching her so much; he didn't realize she was watching him.

She blew him away the night she trapped him in a Citadel lab and held a gun to his crotch. "Who the fuck are you and what did you do with Pate?" she seethed. His brain ran through his training. _Step on her foot. Grab her wrist. Break it. Run. Disappear._ His body had different ideas. Her warm, sweet fragrance mixed with a hint of sweat and the soft skin of her forearm pressed against his neck activated a dormant primal instinct. Her knuckle grazing the base of his cock didn't help.

He should have broken Sarella's hold on him then.

* * *

Six years later, he stands next to her at the Braavosi Museum of Contemporary Art. Tempering his desire, per usual.

"Seriously," she takes a seat in front of the painting. "What do you do in your spare time?"

Jaqen sticks his hands in the pockets of his black peacoat and joins her on the wooden bench. He should give a cryptic answer; instead, he humors her. "Movies," he mutters under his breath.

"Excuse me? I didn't catch that."

"I go to the movies." The Ship movie theater in Ragman's Harbor was one of few warm places a kid on the street could escape the cold. After he joined the order and had proper food and shelter, he still spent hours at a time escaping into the adventures, dramas, and romances on screen; a respite from his black and white existence.

She stares at him a moment before turning back to the painting. "Jaqen H'ghar. Film buff. Never would have guessed."

"People aren't supposed to guess things about me."

A cocky smirk teases the corner of her mouth. He knows what comes next. "You learned six years ago that I'm not 'people.'"

He still doesn't know how she saw through Pate. Since then, she's spotted him on several occasions and refused to tell him how. "Indeed. A man did."

"Let's grab a drink. And see a movie."

"What?"

A playful flicker lights her dark eyes. It's the same look she gets when she asks—for the thousandth time—how face-changing works. "I want to see Jaqen H'ghar's idea of a good time."

She lies. She's running from something that she doesn't want to discuss. That she's running to him triggers an emotion he doesn't want to discuss. 

"If you were on a real job, you wouldn't be following me around a museum. C'mon." 

It sounds simple. For one night, he could be a normal man accompanying an attractive woman on a night out. He's done it before, but never in his own skin for his own pleasure. Surely for a few hours, he can pretend Jaqen H'ghar is just a man and Sarella Sand is just a woman. "Fine," he says with a sigh. "But a man will select the bar and theater." 

"And a lady will chop a man in the throat if he speaks that way all night." 

A dense evening fog greets them outside of the museum. He flips up his collar and pulls a knit skullcap over his head. Next to him, she takes a restorative deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling dramatically. "I'm surprised it's not too cold for you," he says. "You spend so much time on beaches."

"You're just jealous. All that repression and your _order's_ still outclassed by a gang of privileged party girls. That's how you see us, correct?"

His order initially underestimated the Red Viper's daughters, but as they took out increasingly notorious targets, they forced the Faceless Men to pay attention. A few elders still write them off as reckless heiresses. Since their rumored four-day stakeout and poisoning of a corrupt Qarthene nobleman, everyone in the field knows better. "You're formidable. And loud. We respect the former. We're uninterested in the latter."

"Wait until we start stealing your clients."

"A lady wants to know a man's idea of a good time? Not discussing work." 

"Fair."

They walk in silence, the only sound coming from the shops lining the cobblestone street. This section of the city—tucked behind Ragman's Harbor and untouched by recent real estate developments—reminds him of the dockside streets in Oldtown. The Titan wailing over the neighborhood every hour makes it a tough sell for the sophisticated Braavos business community. They prefer the sleek metal high rises of the Purple Harbor to the gray stone of Ragman's.

"This city is my favorite place in the world."

He's surprised. "Over the Summer Isles? Dorne? Lys?"

"Summer Isles and Dorne are home. I love them, but it's different. And I don't like Lys that much."

Yet every time she and her sisters visit, they stand on tables in VIP sections with bottles of champagne. "Too much champagne for you?"

"Not enough history. This is the world's capital of industry, finance, art, fashion... Built on a giant 'fuck you' to an exploitive empire. No wonder you all walk around like you have ten-inch dicks."

He breathes a slight chuckle into damp night air. Her bawdiness has always amused him. It's such a contrast to her refined looks and intellectual voracity. He keeps his eyes forward, taking sporadic glances at her through peripheral vision. She's pulled her hood over her head. Subtle puffs of breath steam the cold air under her nose. If he travels down to her lips, she'll catch him staring.

They go to the Outcast, an old-fashioned pub behind a hotel that used to be a brothel. Even dressed casually, Sarella stands out among the pub's rustic wood interior and dock-worker patrons. On a lively night, the old men from the Fish Market come in to tell their tales, but tonight is quiet. There's only the hum of old blues from a jukebox and low, grumbling banter from a few men at the bar. No one comes to Outcast that doesn't come to Outcast and Jaqen appreciates that. Makes it easier to notice inconsistences.

When he returns to their corner booth with the first two rounds, she's settled in the seat facing the door. "A lady in that seat is a mark on a man's honor," he teases.

She slides to the far end of the padded seat. "There. Now we can both see the door."

So they sit side-by-side. Jaqen takes his time with a large mug of foamy beer; Sarella sips a glass of the pub's strongest cider and peppers him with questions. His favorite film ( _Revenge of the Sith_ —which triggers a giggling fit). The first girl he ever liked (curly-haired, golden-skinned Sarisa Sadelyn when he was 10). If he can dance (most popular tangos in the Known World, required for work). The book he's read the most (Lomas Longstrider's _Wonders Made by Men_ ). He, in turn, skips the small talk: "What are you running from tonight?"

Her eyes narrow, suspicion all over her face. "Excuse me?"

"You love that painting at the museum, yet you weren't happy when I ran into you. And a lady wouldn't rearrange her evening to drink with a rival. She avoids something. What is it?"

Before she sat with her back against the side of the booth facing him. Now she's turned straight with her eyes lingering on the door. He wonders if she'll leave. "Fuck it," she whispers and clears her throat. "My mother is moving in with Myran."

Myran Jonys, the Executive Vice President of the Iron Bank—Jolona Qo's paramour of the last five years. They make quite the pair: tall, dark-hued, equally ambitious and chic. "That troubles you?"

"I thought I took after her in that way. I enjoy men as much as my father enjoys... everyone," she says with a grin. "But he is passionate where my mother is rational. She's not supposed to love anything as much as she loves work. We're supposed to have that in common."

He remembers too many of her lovers. He witnessed her affair with Daras, the son of a Summer Isles barkeep in Oldtown, first hand. Theirs was an easy, playful compatibility. She was more fiery with Mors Sand, bastard of Quentyn Qorgyle. After her dalliance with that prick Mathis Hightower, he stopped watching so closely. "So the men you've enjoyed... You've never been in love?"

"Love requires honesty. We don't live honest lives."

All this time he's envied a life that, for all its color, is eerily similar to his. "No," he says. "We don't."

She swallows a healthy gulp of cider and takes a deep breath before turning to face him again. "Since we're asking invasive questions: have you ever been with a woman?"

"Of course."

"Really?" She perks up like a cat that's spotted a ball of yarn. "Isn't sex a bit selfish and frivolous for an order of humble servants?"

Some of his elders live like monks. He does not. "I once heard: 'If your cock stays hard too long, you'll start thinking with it.' I started going to brothels at 18. I find regular release keeps me focused."

"How do you know if you're any good?"

"Beg pardon?"

"If you only lie with women you pay to please you, how do you know they're satisfied? Or do you not care?"

He need not mention how far an Iron Coin goes in Braavosi brothels. Or that the Black Pearl accepted his purse for a few thorough lessons. "Courtesans appreciate eager students. They'll gladly teach a man whatever he wishes to learn."

She tilts her head to the side. "There's a story there..."

Once more, his eye finds the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. "No story a man is willing to tell," he replies, sipping his beer.

Sarella leans back against the side of the booth and meets his gaze. "Jaqen."

"Hmm?"

"Admit you want to sleep with me or stop staring at me like that."

The wind leaves his chest. _How did she... How does she..._ No matter how closely he observes her—how well he thinks he has her pegged—she blindsides him. _Of course she's perceptive. She has to be in our line of work_. Still, he's nineteen-years-old with her gun jammed in his crotch all over again. His neutral tone and expression are useless but he employs them anyway. "How do I stare at you?"

"You undress me with your eyes. I thought you were curious because you'd never seen a naked woman before. Now that I know that you have..." Her eyes travel appreciatively from his face to his crotch. Not quite brazen, not at all subtle. 

"How long have you noticed this alleged stare?"

"The last three, four years. How long have you been staring?"

He doesn't answer. "You haven't mentioned seeing a movie since we arrived. Did you ever intend to?"

Her teeth graze her bottom lip as she shakes her head. "Not at all."

He settles back in the booth, picks up his half-empty beer bottle, and runs through the evening. Her sadness at the museum was real. He saw it in her demeanor when he approached her. And she wouldn't offer personal information about her mother just to seduce him—that was real, too. She wants a distraction. _And you know how she likes to distract herself._ "A man is not a pretty boy in a bar, Sarella. A lady can't pick him up to forget her problems for a night."

"But you're curious. Why wouldn't you be? You've never acted on a genuine mutual attraction."

His nostrils flare, a signal that his self-control is slipping away. "A lady has known men, yet they've never known her. Is she prepared to know a man she can't hide from?" 

For the first time in a long time, Jaqen H'ghar has no expectations. She could realize they're speeding toward a cliff and pull back or convince herself she's cunning enough to manage the fall. For him, there's no turning back. The night can end right here and he'll clutch its sweet, colorful pieces for the rest of his dull, gray life.

It doesn't.


	2. Roar of the Titan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarella's POV
> 
> Inspired heavily by Snoh Aalegra's "Toronto" and Rihanna's "Yeah, I Said It."

Sarella Sand is not one of those clever people who can’t admit her mistakes. 

That time she borrowed her father’s 1971 Jaguar Roadster and assumed she could figure out how to drive a stick shift? Mistake. At 12, after finding a psychology book in her uncle’s library, she told everyone in Sunspsear who would listen that Tyene was a sociopath. Correct, but a mistake.

Jaqen H’ghar could be the biggest mistake she’s ever made. 

And she will think long and hard about it. 

Tomorrow. 

Right now, she is pinned to a brick wall in an alley on a damp night in Braavos, thanking the gods for the courtesan who taught Jaqen to kiss like this. 

She’s had urgent kisses, hungry kisses, delicate kisses, teasing kisses... But he treats her lips like they’re his first and last meals simultaneously. Just when she thinks he’ll swallow her last breath, he drags his mouth down her throat with a dizzying combination of tongue and teeth. And those hands, with their bruises and callouses... He’s gripping her ass with one and trailing fingertips across the nape of her neck with the other and is there a cat in the alley? Because she swears she hears mewling and...

Seven hells. It’s her. She’s panting and purring like a feline in heat.

The hand on her ass lifts her dress and fingers dance along the lace barrier to her sex. “I wouldn’t do that,” she warns, finally finding words. “Unless you mean to fuck me right here.” 

“A lady thinks I won’t?” he mumbles against her collarbone sliding the wet lace to the slide. “When she is so ready?”

She needs to call the car. But her hands are at his zipper, greeted by a considerable amount of warm, hard girth. _This is an instrument worthy of worship_ , she thinks, wrapping a tight hand around him and stroking his full length. Later, when she is not pressed against a brick wall in an alley, she will do just that. 

In an instant, her feet leave the ground and legs lock around his waist. Sarella holds her breath, waiting. 

She loves the first bite of penetration, particularly when a man is blessed. Jaqen does not disappoint. A sweet hint of pain gives way to exquisite fullness when he pushes inside her—once, twice, three times—until he’s all the way in. 

_“Is she prepared to know a man she can’t hide from?”_

Her body says a resounding “yes” as the Titan of Braavos roars in the distance. 

* * *

Three years prior, she spotted him at a cocktail party in Yin. She was conversing with a Meereenese ambassador to Yi Ti when she recognized Jaqen's slightly bow-legged walk in the bodyguard of a wealthy YiTish saffron magnate. The forgettable face was Jaqen's modus operandi: an average YiTtish man with narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and long, dark hair pulled into a tight, low ponytail. He wore a simple black tuxedo that did wonders for his slender frame and gave his usual disciplined demeanor an air of authority. It was the second time she saw through one of his disguises since their run-in at the Citadel. Six months prior, she picked him out at a street festival in Yunkai. She wanted to taunt him, as spotting him became a game for her, but he spent most of the night glued to his target and she had her own business to tend to.

Sarella was at the bar, receiving an explanation of fine YiTish whiskeys, when she felt someone in her peripheral vision. It was Jaqen’s magnate, eyes raking over her strapless cobalt blue dress, with a visibly annoyed bodyguard behind him. In his native tongue, the magnate offered to purchase her drink: the YiTish custom for propositioning a courtesan. She politely declined but entertained the exchange long enough to watch the war play out under Jaqen’s mask. 

It started with a flash of lust in his eyes he tried to blink away. Not surprising. The man wasn't blind after all, and she was dressed to kill. His other reactions puzzled her. The twitching in his jaw, the subtle movement in his shoulders like he was cracking his knuckles behind his back. Was he angry the man mistook her for a sex worker? No. That couldn't be it. His target wanted to sleep with her and Jaqen's entire body seethed with rage. Almost as if... _He's jealous_ , she realized, _and fighting himself._

How long had he felt that way? Was that how she caught him off guard at the Citadel? None of it mattered. He fought his desire for her because it was inappropriate. For both of them. Besides, if the rumors about the Faceless Men's dedication to their Many Faced God were true, he'd probably never known a woman. 

Still she wondered, in her hotel bed that night, if Jaqen made the magnate feel his wrath when it came time to complete his assignment. The idea stirred her in places she didn’t wish to think about. 

* * *

A different man would go for another round on the way to the hotel, but Jaqen behaves himself. “As much as a man enjoys a lady’s moans, her driver deserves to do his job in peace,” he says in a steady voice as if he didn’t have her panties pulled aside and his teeth grazing her shoulder when the car pulled up. He shifts in his seat, adjusting himself while she does the same; wet fabric clinging to her between crossed legs. _It’s a shame he ever hides that face,_ she thinks, admiring his clean-shaved jaw and creamy complexion. He’s been working too much or has been in cold climates too long; his skin clearly misses the sun. 

This is foolish. _No_ , she answers herself. _It was inevitable_. Years of longing glances and prodding banter were bound to erupt. And on a day like today, when she watched Myran's eyes shine with pride and affection for her mother, she could not resist the pull of a man who so often looks at her that way. 

“A lady undresses me with her eyes,” he teases, showing the subtle dimple in his cheek. 

Would she ever hear that ridiculous Lorathi speech pattern without remembering his gruff whispers in her ear? _A lady is so wet for me. Does a lady feel full? I want a lady to scream when she cums for me._ She shakes her head, remnants from the alley still drying on her thighs. "A man has no idea."

Centuries ago, their hotel was The Happy Port, the most popular brothel in Ragman’s Harbor. Now, it is a 20-story building with heated balconies facing the Titan of Braavos on its north side; one of the last "new" additions to the neighborhood before the Purple Harbor became the city's center. Besides plush white carpet and a double king-sized bed with 1800-thread count Myrrish cotton sheets, their 19th floor suite boasts a stunning view of the harbors and the thick cloud of mist hanging in the air above them.

Once they're settled, Sarella heads straight to the shower with Jaqen on her heels. "It's my fault a lady is dirty," he says. "The least I can do is clean up my mess."

As they undress, she catches him surveying the bathroom with its double sinks, pristine porcelain floors, and a shower big enough to fit five people. "Too immodest for you?" she asks. "I know you don’t care for luxury."

"It suits the occasion." He removes his shirt. “Obviously, I'm not interested in modesty tonight."

They start with a slow, casual exploration of each other's bodies. She figured he was in good shape, but he is muscled like an Olympic swimmer from head to toe. And scarred. A long jagged line down the side of his torso. A permanent purple bruise on his lower back. Knicks and cuts across his chest. He tenses at her touch, but eventually relaxes as her hands traverse his wet skin, appreciating the lines, grooves and changes in texture. His hands find the small of her back and begin their own journey. Down to her buttocks, out to the span of her hips, up her back until he grabs a fistful of her wet curly hair and pulls, exposing her neck for his eager mouth. He takes his sweet, torturous time down her body, but when he backs her into the wall with the shower bench, his intentions are clear. 

Once more, she's pinned to a wall. This time with her legs draped over his shoulders, his back muscles flexing under the water while he devours her with the same kisses that left her breathless in the alley. If she could manage coherent thought, she would scold herself for assuming he was inexperienced. He's as meticulous with her as he is with everything else, finding the pace that makes her cry out and sticking with it until time and space melt away. There is only him, her weeping sex, and the patter of steamy water falling around them. He whispers against her. Words she can't comprehend because he's sliding fingers into her, her back is arching away from the wall and her mind is floating somewhere above her body. His tongue applies the faintest hint of pressure to the hood of her clit and that's it. She erupts with white stars bursting behind her eyelids; her legs trembling and his name pouring from her mouth like honey.

Then he bends her over.

**

The Titan's roar marks the hour and it is midnight in Braavos. Even under a blanket of gray, the city shines with twinkling white lights piercing the darkness below. Sarella and Jaqen enjoy the view from their partially covered hotel balcony, outfitted with a firepit to shield against the chilly night. After an evening of drinking and physical exertion they sate their hunger with room service: a steaming bowl of stewed cuttlefish for him and thick pasta in butter cod sauce for her. The crackling fire and fragrant dishes feel warm and cozy; a stark contrast to the evening's fiery beginning.

"You've been around the world and mean to tell me you don't have a favorite place?"

Jaqen shrugs. "A man doesn't travel for leisure. I'm usually focused on my mission."

"Yes, but you've at least tasted food, heard music, witnessed a beautiful sunrise? Something that endears you to a location?"

He sits back on the couch, staring out at the harbor. "Sunrises in Meereen. The pyramids look majestic against the oranges, pinks, and yellows in the sky. Your mother's country has the best music, by far. It's soulful," he looks at her and bites his bottom lip. "Lively. For food..." he lifts his bowl. "Our seafood is the best in the world."

"And the most beautiful women?"

"Oh, Braavos. Easily. Our women are as deep and rich as Summer Islanders; golden as the Naathi; fair as the Lysene."

She wonders what he prefers when he goes to brothels; if he's ever tried to lose himself between a pair of brown thighs to get her off his mind. "So you don't have a type?"

"A man will admit that he finds the 'beauty of Old Valyria' a little... dull. But I am mostly drawn to wit and presence."

His answer does nothing to sate her burning curiosity. "The most famous courtesan you've ever been with?"

"A man doesn't bed and tell."

 _A man is a hypocrite_. "How many men have you watched me seduce over the years? You can tell me one woman you've known."

Jaqen sighs. She knows this isn't his nature, but she has him cornered. "Bellegere Otherys. And do not ask for details because I will not provide them."

Sarella sits straight up. "You fucked _The Black Pearl_? And you claim you're too _humble_ for luxury?"

"I don't like frivolity," he counters. "A man spends his coin where it matters."

He experiences so much of the world through strangers' eyes. It makes sense to want the best money can buy when he seeks his pleasure. She reluctantly respects it. 

"Is a lady jealous?" Jaqen asks, his voice thick with amusement. "Should I remind her how much I'm enjoying her right now?"

It dawns on her he's been in the driver's seat all night. As if her questioning his experience earlier was a challenge to prove himself skilled at satisfying a woman. She appreciates his assertiveness, but she is not a passive lover. And deep down, sharing a partner with the world's most beautiful woman sparks her competitive instinct. _He's wanted you for years_ , she reminds herself. And she is the first to touch him out of pure desire. Still, she wants to give him something to remember. 

She turns in her seat, leans back against the arm of the couch and opens her robe. "Are you enjoying yourself, Jaqen?" she asks, running a finger tip over her exposed breast. He reaches for her ankle, but she snatches her leg away. "Aht, aht. I didn't say you could touch me yet. Open your robe and show me you're enjoying yourself." 

He obeys, lazily stroking his manhood and gazing hungrily over her body. "Is this what a lady wants to see? Is she remembering how good it felt inside her in the shower? How a man made her scream?" 

"Maybe," Sarella says, trailing a hand up her thigh. "Maybe you're remembering how hard you came when I told you to finish inside me. I believe you were weak in the knees..." 

He nods. "Maybe I was." 

She sits up slightly to observe his progress. He's harder but not as hard as she'd like. "And what does a man want right now?" 

"To fuck you over the side of this balcony." 

She can't recall if she's ever heard him curse before. _He must be worked up._ "What if I have a better idea?" 

"Such as?" 

"Close your eyes. And spread your legs." If he's unsure what's happening, he figures it out when she settles on her knees in front of him and replaces his hand with hers. "Hands to yourself until I say otherwise." 

"As a lady commands." 

Unlike their mad dash in the alley, she's able to take her time and enjoy the feel of him; thick and veiny with soft skin. She tentatively licks the crown. He tenses above her. "I've wanted you like this all night," she whispers against him. Another lick, this one from base to tip before stretching her mouth wide to welcome the first few inches of him. She establishes a rhythm; up and down, with her hands working the base. Each time, taking more of him on the downstroke and rising with a loud slurp. For a while, she forgets his pleasure in favor of hers, savoring the effort required to accommodate his width. That is, until she swallows his full length and he raises his hips and moans her name. She looks up to find his arms stretched—muscles taut as he grips the back of the couch—and his head thrown back in ecstasy. 

A woman with nothing to prove would let him take over. 

She works him faster. Increases the pressure. Makes her mouth wetter. Until he's swearing in Braavosi and expanding against her cheeks. "Where do you want to cum?" she asks, finally giving him a say in the matter. 

"Swallow," he groans. "All of it." 

Jaqen H'ghar. Ever the tidy gentleman. 

"You may use your hands now." 

No sooner than the words leave her mouth, he pushes her head down and clutches her hair, spilling his seed with curses on his lips. 

She has a feeling Braavos will be his favorite city from now on. 

**Author's Note:**

> I REALLY enjoyed writing this.
> 
> Braavos is my favorite ASOIAF location, so modernizing it made me giddy (I need a real-life version of the "No Turning Back" painting).


End file.
